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The 

Blossomy Bough 



POEMS 



SHAEMAS O SHEEL 



Published by The Franklin Press 

PUBLISHERS 

124 West 19TH Street, New York 

For Shaemas O Sheel 
publisher of books in good taste 

I9I2 






\^ 



^V 



In making up and sending forth this 

first volume of my verse, 

I wish to inscribe it as a whole 

to 

Edwin Markham and Catherine Markham, 

who, in the words of the latter to Mrs. William Sharp, 

Brought Me Up — "Poetically 

Shaemas O Sheet 






Copyright, 1 9 1 1 , by Shaemas O Sheel 



THE QUEST OF THE ROSE 

THAT IS WHITE AND RED 



PROEM 

My song is such a little thing. 

Ah such a little thing! 
Jt is not loud, it is not long. 

And wherefor should I sing ? 
A faint and feeble spring it is, 

A flower that fades with night; 
A bird with broken wing it is 

That fails and falls in flight. 



A bird with broken wing it is 

And yet must never die. 
Because it bears a word of love 

Athwart the lonely sky; 
At last, at last its cry will reach. 

True as a driven dart. 
At last my song I will reach 

My pale proud Lady's heart. 



THE ROSE-BREATH 



A TRIOLOGY OF LOVE NEW-BORN 

THE FIRST DAY 

There are my friends in other, distant places. 

To see whom I have yearned by day and night; 
To whom I've longed to go, across the spaces. 

The long low lands, that keep them from my sight: 
To-night all these my thoughts have quite forsaken, 

A nearer, newer vision fills mine eye. 
Of hair as brown as Autumn leaves, light-shaken 

Above a face where all white roses lie. 



THE SECOND DAY 

All day, all day do I think of thee. 

And a fierv fervor burns in me. 

And in the hour of my dull employ 

I fly to the Farthest Isle with thee. 

The Farthest Isle of the Western sea: 

And there we live, while the passionate winds 

Cry us **Love!" and urge ** Embrace!" 

And I clasp — O Supple Reed! — thy form. 

And I kiss — White Rose! — thy face! 



THE THIRD DAY 

dearest form in the world, O fairest face, 

1 would claim you and force my claim with a close embrace I 
I would look long into your eyes till the virgm doubt 

Dies, and the earth -lights die and the stars go out. 
And only mine eyes and the answering eyes of you 
Burn like blue flames, O deeper passionate blue ! 

THE POET DESIRES HIS LADY BECAUSE 

SHE IS BOTH THE WHITE ROSE AND THE RED 

If only the pallor of whi^-e petals made you fair, 

Tho your soul were the crystal that holds the mysteries of all times 

I would not have known that my fate was upon me when I saw 

you there. 
Nor that I must henceforth put you in all my rimes. 
And always I had seen those who are only crimson and I did not 

care: 
When you passed I arose to search for you thru all climes. 

I know that you wait for me inviolably pure and white, 

I know that you wait for me tending a flame that is red: 

I will find you and gaze in your soul and make your soul more 

white, 
I will breathe on your passion and we shall be lost in flames that 

are red. 



THE POET PRAYS FOR HIS LADY 

With folded hands and with head bowed low I have sunk to t\ 

earth. 
For I would pray as I never have prayed since birth; 
Oh 1 would utter some beautiful burning word 
That must turn to a white pure flame in the sight of the Lord, 
Who from His throne will say **Go, passionate flame. 
Light thou his Lady's path in my Holy Name, 
Be thou a star to her eyes and a lamp to her feet 
And a guiding pillar of fire where the crossways meet; 
Pause not in places of peril — O thence be fleet. 
But kindle the torches of pleasure where life is sweet ! * ' 
So well would I pray, yet I utter never a word: 
What word will flame as a fire at the feet of the Lord ? 
What prayer can I make that God will set as a star 
Over the ways where my Lady's journeys are? 
There is but one prayer in my soul, and the whole thereof 
As I send it burning to God is the word **I Love! " 



THE LOVER TELLS HIS DREAMS OF HIS LADY 

O Love my Love, 

How nearer than the red blood of my veins 
Thou hast come to my heart, and how more near 
Than my most inthnate old-time hope or fear 
The thought of thee has mounted to my brain's 
Supremest seat, and is the queen thereof! 



O Love my Love, 

Thou has fanned into flame my being's fires, 
Only to thee their fervency aspires. 
Thee only every wakened sense desires! 
From death thou hast called me unto life, alas. 
Only to die if this great dream should pass ! 



But surely, surely love is the procreant word. 
Which being heard 

By two together breathed, will summon dreams 
Out of the womb of wistful futile things, 
And give them wings 

To soar and be more great, being real, than the fair promise seems. 
So I will dream and tell my dreams to thee. 
Till thou hear'st **Love!" thru all, and breathest ** Love! *' 
to me. 



Like the fresh melody of morning birds 

Sweetly about me ever wing thy words. 

Thy voice, thy voice! 

I build my dreams into an arched hall 

Aiid a wide garden with a flowering wall. 

And life is as a gentle carnival. 

And I rejoice 

Forever in the music o thy voice. 

Thy voice! 

O gladly thru my echoing halls forever 

It mast ring, 

And gladly by my flowering walls forever 

It must sing. 

Thy voice! 



And O dear eyes, 

O dearest eyes. 

Bluer than blue the seraphs know 

As they wheel thru the upper skies 

Where the godly sun rules radiant bright — 

As they droop thru the nether skies 

Where the moon weaves silver nets all night- 

O dearest eyes 

More radiant than the sun's gold face. 

More subtle than the moon's strange smile. 

More deep than all the deeps of space — 

O dearest eyes. 



Be sun and moon to my dim isle 
Of life, illume that shadowy place, 
O dearest eyes! 



When dawn bends down and offers his first kiss 

To the hushed waters of a wandering lake. 

Then, as a virgin slowly lifts her veil. 

The thin mist rises; and with grace like this 

Thou movest thru my dreams; thy vestments shake 

Under the winds like waters, and are pale. 

And cling about thy bosom, and scarce miss 

Revealing how thy limbs their rhythms make; 

O I am wistful beyond any tale 

To be the one whose tremulous great bliss 

It were, to win thee, tho with toil and ache. 

Each radiant garment: I could never fail. 



O Love my Love, 

Forever and forever to possess 

Thy strange high courtly tender loveliness, 

Giving my whole unworthy self in fee 

To ihee, to thee! 

So in dreams I fashion happiness. 

Ah me! 

In dreams beside me ever thou dost go — 

O Love my Love, shall it in life be so? 



THORNS 



THE LOVER BIDS ALL 

PASSIONATE WOMEN MOURN 

Mourn with red lips, pale women who wander alone. 
Having each a sorrow too great for another to share, 
Deirdre whose fate was saddest because you were most fair, 
Finavar, doomed for your pride to carry a heart of stone. 
And all who were broken because of your loveliness. 
Mourn with dishevelled hair, for you understand 
The heart of a lover, and know that its utter distress 
If love should fail, is more than the grief of a land 
For its strong spear-bearing sons who have met defeat. 
Mourn, tor I tell you my Love who is passing sweet 
As berries in Autumn, and fair as a blossomy hough. 
And proud with the pride you know, pale sorrowful ones. 
Has taken her thoughts from me, and broken her vow. 
And the world is a terrible crumbling of moons and of suns. 
Mourn with dim eves O sad and beautiful ones! 



12 



HIS GRIEF GIVES THE LOVER NO REST 

I will go to the ends of the world, I will go to the ends ot the 
world: 

Whether rough roads be under or a wild and perilous sea. 
Ne'er shall my feet be restful, never my sail be furled. 

But I will wander and wander, for a sick heart's heavy in me. 



A sick heart is beating in me, there is nothing to give it surcease. 
Naught in the place of pleasure, nor the place where red war 
is hurled: 

So till my Love relenteth or till death grant me release 
I must be roaming ever, away to the ends of the world ! 



«3 



THE LOVER THINKS OF 

HIS LADY IN THE NORTH 

Now many are the stately ships that northward steam away. 
And grey sails northward blow black hulls, and many more are 

they; 
And myriads of viking gulls flap to the northern seas: 
But Oh my thoughts that go to you are more than all of these! 



The winds blow to the northward like a million eager wings, 
The driv^en sea a million white-capped waves to northward flings: 
I send you thoughts more many than the waves that fleck the sea. 
More eager than tempestuous winds, O Love long leagues from 



Love long leagues from me, I would I trod the drenched deck 
Of some ship speeding to the North and staunch against all wreck, 

1 would I were a sea-gull strong of wing and void of fear: 
Unfaltering and fleet I'd fly the long way to my Dear! 



O if I were the sea, upon your northern land I'd beat 
Until my waves flowed over all and kissed your wandering feet; 
And if I were the winds I'd waft you perfumes from the South, 
And give my pleadings to your eais, my kisses to your mouth. 



H 



Tho many ships are sailing, never one will carry me, 
1 may not hurry northward with the gulls, the winds, the sea; 
But fervid thoughts they say can flash across long leagues of blue — 
Ah, so my love and longing must be known. Dear Heart, to you! 



THE SANDS 

The wind swirls the tangle of her tresses where she stands; 
She stoops and gathers in rose-pale hands 
A myriad grains of the dry white sands. 



A moment she holds them wonderingly: 
Whence and how have they come to be 
Part of the strand where her feet go free ? 



She sifts them slowly thru fingers slim: 

The wind whirls them seaward, a current dim: 

They are soon forgotten, as any whim. 



She gathered my dreams as the drifting sands, 

Musing, as one who understands: 

She scattered them with rose- white hands. 



THE BITTERNESS OF LOVE 

As I went thru the rustling grasses 

Over the long low dune, 
I saw on the sands two lovers. 

And I saw the waves and the moon. 



And I heard the unaltering murmur 
Of the sea, and a wind that stirred: 

And I heard the lovers breathing 
Many a soft sweet word. 



And because I too am a lover 

And my Love is far ft-om me, 
I hated the two on the sands there. 

And the moon and the wmd and the sea. 



i6 



THE LOVER THINKS OF THE DAY 

WHEN HE MET HIS LADY FIRST 

O Day of Days, O singled out of Time, 
Touched by God's finger, lighted with His flame. 
Made as a star, to burn with unfading fire. 
And shed a constant beauty on men's hearts! 



O Day of Revelation — when the veil 
Suddenly fell, and all my naked soul 
Trembled with fearful wonder, and with joy 
Like white flame shot with crimson, as I saw 
The meaning of my life made manifest. 
More great than I could dream, more beautiful! 



O Day of Ordination, Holy Day! 

The Spirit breathed upon me, and 1 felt 

Ardor invade my soul; and ancient wisdom 

Rested, a robe upon me; I became 

A priest in the Temple of Life: the secret doors 

Opened before me, to the inmost shrine, 

The sanctuary — and I stood before 

God's Presence in a Woman! And I learned 

The rite of worship, and the rite is Love, 



»7 



O Day of all my Songs, Dear Day of" Joy !^ — 

Thru the pale lips of an eager dawn you came, 

A wind impetuous, having power to win, 

From the attuned lute that is my heart, 

A rapturous music — ah how soon there swelled 

Another strain to dominance, a sad, 

A grief-born minor, lurking from the first! 

And now they too rise ever from my heart, 

O Day of Sorrows, Day of All my Songs ! 



Day of Days, but not because of me! 

1 had been neither priest nor poet, I 
Had never placed a mark upon your brow 
Save as her lover, save as whom God chose 
To love and serve and know and sing of her. 
Of her ! Ah but a little if I may 

That strange, that subtle beauty of her soul 
Worthily sing, then thou art fixed indeed 
Immortal in men's hearts, O Day of Days! 



i8 



THE POET TELLS WHY HE SENDS HIS 

LADY SOME CRUSHED FLOWERS 

Because while J went lonely 

Where violets were blue 
And little wood-anemones 

Were white, I thought of you; 

And while I lay so lightly 

Where buds were in the grass, 
And with my comrades sang a song 

To help the twilight pass — 

Altho my head was pillowed 

On Aurietta's arm. 
Her little hand within my own 

And over me her charm; 

Altho I twined pale flowers 

Into her red-gold hair. 
And saw her eyes above me bent. 

And saw that they were fair — 

My heart, O my Beloved! 

Was silent with a dream, 
And thru the twilight of my soul 

There came a vibrant gleam: 



19 



And as the stars flamed whitely 
Down deepening seas of blue. 

My being broke to flame-like love 
And star-like thoughts of you. 



ZO 



THE POET REMINDS HIS LADY 

THAT HE THINKS OF HER ALWAYS 

As I went up the highway. 

Warm odors wafted free 
From hidden forest flowers. 

Fragrant flowers, greeted me: 
And I dreamt of many hours 
With thee, with thee. 



Along a lonely by-way 
Melody came afloat. 

Flung by a woodland warbler 
From his melodious throat— 

I heard thy voice. Beloved, 
In ev'ry luscious note. 



The path that I call ** My Way ** 
Leads far, with boughs above. 

And there good fortune gives me 
Sometimes a treasure-trove: 

A stray white rose in mem'ry 
Of thee, my Rose- White Love. 



THE LOVER WISHES HIS LADY WERE 

WITH HIM ON AN AUTUMN DAY 

O why are you not — the day being woven of gold — 
Beside me now going under the Autumn trees 

In some place of rustling leaves and leaves fragrantly burning? 
You should know then the folly of thinking our tale is told. 
Seeing that even in Autumn there is no death on the trees, 
But a more mellow life of loving and longing and learning. 



I have known how in your veins there is the surge of unresting 
waters. 
Your soul being blent of sea-spray and mist and green deeps 
of the sea. 

And I am broken by your vvildness, as a boat that sinks to 

green caves; 

Yet if we went to-day and looked on the peace-enamoured waters. 

Even as deep as my own desire would be your desire of me. 

And we would be at one forever, as the sea is at one, for 

all its unresting waves. 



22 



THE ROSE IN HER GARDEN 



THE POET ACCEPTS FRIENDSHIP AFTER LOVE 

Sweet, to be wakened again by a prelude of morn, 
A promise of day. 

After intolerable hours of a night forlorn. 

After an endless night of hours grief-torn. 

Sweet to be wakened even to skies that are grey. 

Sad skies when I think of the gold that was yesterday ! 



Had it been better to suffer the night forever. 
Sorrow alway. 

So I had seemed from the day of our love not to sever? 

Nay, even friendship is sweet, and my hope dies never: 
I will rejoice and go forth in the dawn that is grey. 
Who knows what glory may burst ere the close of the day! 



23 



THE POET THINKS OF HIS LADY AT EVENING 

The cool sweet winds are sweet and cool as the breath of her. 
The star-lit skies are luminous as the eyes of her. 
The evening thrills with the thought of the beauty and joy of her. 
And something within my heart sings low of the love of her. 



O whispering winds do you whisper a word she breathed to you? 
O glowing stars do you mirror the glow in the eyes of herr 
O evening thrill, with a beautiful thought did she quicken your 
O song in my heart, do you echo the song in the heart of her? 



24 



THE POET CONSIDERS A 

LITTLE WILD WHITE ROSE 

Dear little pale white 
Frail white 
Bloom, 

Wan ghost of color 
And wraith of perfume. 
Little pale flower 
With faint perfume — 



Why are you dearer. 
Nearer 
To me 

Than lilies and laurels 
Ever can be? 
Than clusters of clematis 
Wondrous to see? 



You are like my White 
Shy White 
Rose; 

Exquisite, delicate. 
Pale, she grows 
Lonely and lovely. 
Like, you, little rose, 

25 



THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY AT DUSK 

White moths, fluttering low in the shadows, like shadows of 

ghosts; 
White daisies, swaying slow in the meadows, like faerie hosts; 
Pale masses of laurel, like souls of poets, in white dreams held; 
And a breeze like the sigh of a child, or an old man's memories 

of eld; 
And I, like a moth, like a shadow, a flower, a flutter of wind — 
Pale, and asway, and silent, for the love in my heart enshrined. 



26 



THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY IN A GLEN 

I loitered in a little glen: 

A bird was there, and nothing else 
Except the waters wandering by; 
Whitely they fell and wandered by; 
A bird flew over; nothing else 
Save I, within the little glen. 



I called upon the waters then 

To sing your name; and nothing else 
Should be the bird's melodious cry: 
The waters fell and wandered by. 
Droning incessant, nothing else; 
A bird-song wavered thru the glen. 



And since the waters would not cry 
Your name of names and nothing else, 
Nor the bird sing it thru the glen, 
I breathed it thru the little glen: 
Then the hushed air began to pulse. 
And joyous winds to wander by. 



27 



THE POET CHERISHES A FLOWER 

PLUCKED BY HIS LADY 

Yesterday, Maying it deep in the wood. 

When silent a moment and musing we stood, 

I asked of the three of you, beautiful girls. 

Three perishing tokens, with petals for pearls. 

Then Goldie a violet gave me fair. 

And Pippa a columbine from her hair. 

And you with your pale hands pulled for me 

This star-pale tiny anemone. 

Star-pale? Stars are passionate, too! 

And these white petals caressed by you. 

Frail and quiet, serene, austere. 

Like the skies grow infinite as I peer. 

Deep under deep, height over height. 

Pierced by a star-pale passionate light. 

Oh in this quivering bloom I see 

Deeps of desire and destiny ! 

Well it was that the gift you gave 

Was white and pallid and strange and grave. 

With a passion greater than tints could show 

Or any who loved you not could know: 

So it seems for your symbol meet. 

Fair, frail, puzzling and passing sweet. 



28 



Violet, late so very blue, 

Luring the eye to look on you. 

Lustreless now and shrunk and dry 

Here with the columbine you lie. 

All of its gold and scarlet dulled. 

For the sun has circled since both were pulled. 

And you, my precious anemone. 

Are withered worst of the fragile three, 

A wee brown shrivelled pathetic thing. 

Yet you I cherish and you I sing. 



29 



THE PERIL OF ROSE-QUESTING 



THE LOVER TELLS HIS LADY WHO HAS 
GROWN COLD TO HIM WHY LOVE STILL LIVES 

You bring me scentless flowers, ashen fruit. 

Pale wine that cannot quench my passionate thirst. 
And wreathes like hollow shadows in my hair; 
Yet hath the tree of love undying root 

In seed of blooms you brought me at the first. 
Nor knew how wondrous life lay folded there. 



30 



THE LOVER PRAISES HIS LADY'S PRIDE 

I sat long with an old wise man 
Whose thought had tested every plan 
For turning life's crude ore to gold; 
And I was silent while he told 
How in the furnaces of pride 
The flames afflict us and deride 
But never give the wanted gain; 
Only with patience and long pain 
We hammer out a scant largesse 
With the blunt tool of humbleness. 
The wisdom of many a hard-won day 
And many a sunset passed away 
Spoke from his words and from his thought. 
And yet I turned from him and sought 
Within my grief-stained memory 
The last sad vision holding thee. 
It was as if I stood before 
Maeve's fierce fair daughter Finavar, 
Whose wild mind went to war-like things 
And scorned a hundred suitor kings. 
Greater than her great pride was thine, 
For, having loved me with love fine 
And fervid, thou could' st yet refuse 
To choose me when I bade thee choose 
Me or thy virgin right to be 
In all thy maiden friendships free. 
Anger had cast out of my mind 

31 



My joy that thou art of the kbd 

Who can and must be all unbound. 

Surely thine own words left a wound 

Upon the lips that bade me go: 

Yet I remember thou stood so 

Thy white neck seemed an ivory tower 

Slenderly strong with pride's sad power. 

that white strength! — yet, did it shake? — 

1 thought I saw its firmness break — 
Only the grace that always lies 
Within them, filled thy sorrowful eyes. 
No weakness; and thy hair somehow 
Seemed a rich crown upon thy brow. 
The candles guttered and went pale 
And I stepped close; yet did not fail 
Thy sad incomparable high pride. 
And I went slowly from thy side. 

He seemed so pitiful, that old man. 
Whose life had tested every plan 
And garnered from their passionate stress 
At last the wisdom of humbleness. 
I cried ** All Time's tempestuous winds 
Assault her yet not one unbinds 
A gold thread of her queenly crown. 
Nor could their hosted strength bow down 
That ivory tower: is it not well 
To love so wild a thing? I fell 
Before her like a broken tide. 
Praising her lone high cruel pride." 

32 



THE LOVER GUARDS THE FLAME OF HIS LOVE 

It is dawn-time: 

The world is awakening to daily toil; 

But I have not been sleeping. 

I have been wakeful, tending the Sacred Flame, 

My Sacred Flame. 

The gusts have been blowing about it, 

I have feared that it had gone out. 

And then I have felt chilled. 

I have been a poor priest. 

My thoughts have gone away to other things, 

And my desires. Ah shame is me! they too 

Have gone to other things; 

But some breath more than mine has ever again 

Blown thru the embers, and the Flame has flared: 

O God, I thank Thee for thy fostering breath! 



I know, I know 

Again and yet again my thoughts will go away. 

And my desires will set toward other things 

Than this — 

Oh, one cannot forever watch a little flame! 

And I — I am a lover of each lovely sound 

That vibrates to me, and I love each form 

That goes before my sight with graceful rhythm: 

Sometimes I must look elsewhere. Little Flame! 



33 



But ever and again God breathes on thee. 

And I am minded that the end of Time 

Will be but the beginning 

Of thy true brightness and eternal light. 

And of thy warmth which then will comfort me. 

Melting all memories of this cold world 

In w^hich thou wert the coldest of all things. 

O Little Flame, O Little Flame, 

O Sacred Fire, 

Sobbing, I ask forgiveness of neglect. 

And pray thee of thy goodness to remember 

Not the distractions that too many times 

Have led my thoughts away; 

But rather these 

Long vigils I have kept. Oh many a night. 

Long sorrows 1 have borne Oh many a day. 

And the great surplus of my love for thee. 

Whence only I have love for other things. 

O Little Fire doubt not! 

O Sacred Flame doubt not! 

When time is past thou wilt consume me all. 

And till then God and I will keep a vigil 

As we have kept to-night: 

Now it is dawn; 

Grey dawn and a weary world that stirs and wakes. 



34 



THE LOVER REMINDS GOD OF THEIR COMPACT 

Stript to the naked form of my faith 

I bow before Thee, God my God; 
Empty and cold is my heart. 

It is not to adore Thee, 
And my lips are still and dumb. 

It is not to implore Thee, 

God my God; 
Humble nor proud I am not, but I kneel 

Passive before Thee, 

God my God. 



Thine is the power and Thou can'st do 

E*en as thou wilt, O God my God: 
Vain were my shrewdest skill 

If I tried to cheat Thee, 
And my greatest strength were vainly 

Strained to defeat Thee, 

God my God; 
I face Thee now with one question and wait 

An answer from Thee, 

God my God. 



35 



We have a compact made of old days. 

Thou and I, O God my God: 
One thing only in life 

I demanded of Thee, 
And for that boon to serve Thee well 

And to love Thee, 

God my God, 
Gladly I swore; and I come but claiming 

F'airplay fi-om Thee, 

God my God. 



I have not served Thee well, and why? 

How hast Thou flayed me, God my God? 
Left me unguarded from Hell till 1 think 

Thou hast betrayed me. 
Giving no sign of the end of the trial 

While Thou' St assayed me, 

God my God! 
I can endure no more; therefor fulfill 

The promise Thoust made me, 

God my God! 



36 



Only one glory in life, but that 

I will not forego, God my God: 
Give me the woman I love, for it standeth so. 

Our pact; I have served and suffered 
And waited. 

And lo! 

God my God, 
I will serve and suffer, but wait no more: 

Is it Yes or No? 

God my God? 



37 



FOUND 



THE LOVER AND HIS LADY ARE 

BOUND BY A MILLION BONDS 

We are too manifoldly bound together 

Ever to wholly part; 
Too many days of glad or gloomy weather 
Like birds we've braved on light or fearful feather; 

We must not part. 
Nor break that bond — as some unwelcome tether — 

Which binds with love my heart to your proud heart. 



38 



THE LOVER REMEMBERS THE CANDLE 

HIS LADY LIT FOR HIM 

Before the picture of an armored knight 

She placed a candle with a little light, 

A tiny candle with a steady flame 

That put a glow of gold about the name 

Galahad: ** It is your candle " was her word. 

And first I wondered, then my youth was stirred 

To a resolve as fine as this her thought. 

To be her knight in all things, and in naught 

Less worthy of her than that storied knight. 

Puissant and pure, above my candle's light. 



How long before I learned that youth is frail 
When in the lonely questing of the Grail 
Immediate sweet cups are offered him? 
How long before I knew that dreams can dim. 
And a thin tenuous thread of faith remain 
Truth's only guide thru ways of sin and pain? 
How long before my knightly crest sunk low? 
Yet for the whole adventure I can show 
At last the only guerdon that I sought. 
My Love's own love; because it seemed as naught 
To her that I had mingled good with bad; 
It is myself she loves, not Galahad, 
And when disarmed I came to her again 
She kissed me: there is no more sin or pain. 

39 



THE LOVER HEARS NO SONG 

BUT THE SONG OF HIS LOVE 

Out of all ages that have been and passed 

Voices are crying ** We unremembered souls 

Had once warm bodies, and we lived." Then some 

Chant fiercely of old battles, and the joy 

Of victory, or anguish of defeat; 

Some sing the songs they sang to languid lutes 

In marble cities by the Aegean; and some — 

O troubling voices from all ages past ! — 

Sing low of loves that triumphed and that lost. 

But all the voices of all hours that were. 

The mingled chorus of the hours that are. 

The prophecies of hours that will be. 

To me are nothing; for I only hear 

One strain that trembles from the veins of my heart. 

One sweet immortal melody that first 

Thrilled into being in that immortal hour 

When first we met, by God's old purpose led: 

One haunting strain whose music makes for me 

All life, all time and all eternity 

But one Immortal Hour, one Deathless Day. 



40 



THE LOVER TELLS HOW LOVE 

MUST ALWAYS GROW 

O more than ever and more than I can tell 
I love you, and my love grows evermore: 
As the waves widen to the waiting shore 

From the small wound wherein the pebble fell. 

Such way of love beyond all ways is well. 
Since the heart does not burn to a sad core 
With its first flaming, but forevermore 

Grows more intense with love than I can tell. 



Think, O Beloved, to what nameless glory 

This love must grow, which flowered first so fair. 
For surely wakened never anywhere 

Poppy or rose like it, in deed or story ! 

It will outbloom this withering clod the world. 

Rooted in God and never to be furled. 



THE LOVER SCORNS ALL WOMEN BUT HIS LADY 

Were all the women of the world to come 

And droop their languorous hair about my heart, 
They could not hold it in those nets so fine; 
And pleading with lips lyrical or dumb. 
And howsoever an alluring art. 

They could not win the kisses that are thine. 



If Helen came, her white limbs hung with gold. 
And Deirdre with dim visionary eyes. 

And Grania, flame-haired, fiery with command; 
If Hero came — reluctant once of old — 

And she who all too long with Romeo lies. 

And she who led Dante heavenward by the hand. 



They could not make me fain of their fain lips 
Nor lure me to the languor of warm breasts 
With any soft compulsion of white arms; 
And delicate dim touch of finger tips 

And fire that flames from eyes and fire that rests 
Would leave me cold and lose the name of charms. 



42 



Nay, Solomon's Love and Anthony's Desire, 
Heloise, and frail Francesca, and their queen 
Immortal Aphrodite, whom I praise. 
And all her passionate daughters veined with fire. 
Might pass like old bent hags, for I have seen 
Beauty within thy beauty for all days. 



THE POET PRAISES HIS LADY'S BRIGHT BEAUTY 

Some night I think if you should walk with me 
Where the tall trees like ferns on the ocean's floor 
Sway slowly in the blue deeps of the moon's flood, 
I would put up my hands thru that impalpable sea 

And tear a branch of stars from the sky, as once I tore 
A branch of apple-blossoms for you in an April wood. 



And I would bend the dewy branch of stars about your little head 

Till they flamed with pride to be as blossoms amid your hair; 

But I would laugh to see them so pale, being near your eyes. 

I would say to you **Love, the Immortal Ones are hovering 

about your head. 

They laugh at the dimness of stars in the luminous night or 

your hair." 

I would toss that weeping branch back to the mournful skies. 



43 



THE LOVER TELLS WHAT HE 

SEES IN HIS LADY'S EYES 

All that is old and unending 

Is hid in the deeps of your eyes; 
All that is joyous and hopeful, 

All that is certain and wise; 
The shadowy raven of sorrow. 

And peace, with the wings of a dove. 
And ever the dim swift secret 

Ineffable vision of love. 



The sunrise has lent them a glory, 

The sunset a wistful gleam. 
The moon has given its wonder. 

The dark has given its dream; 
And the waters that flow in the hollows, 

And the vapors that waver above. 
In the deeps of your eyes are woven 

To veil the white vision of love. 



44 



THE LOVER BIDS HIS LADY'S EYES 

CEASE HAUNTING HIM 

Hide from me, hauming eyes. 

Turn ye away. 
Hide from me, haunting eyes! 

Ever I seek you, ah but do not stay. 
Hark to my cries. 
Hide from me, haunting eyes! 

All day have I seen your flames, O stars in the day. 

Turn ye away. 
Hark to my cries! 

The strength of the hours of the sun I have ceased to prize. 
And the moon no more I love in the dreaming skies. 

But only alway 
It is you I seek, it is you I see, it is you I prize, 
O haunting eyes! 

You are waiting there by my couch at the dawn of day. 

And you stay, you stay, 

Alway, alway. 
Till my heart takes fire from your fire and the flames arise. 
Seeking and vainly seeking the mystic skies 

Where you are orbed in wonder, where you stray 

Star-like, but ever, ever and alway 

45 



Lure me and call and draw me till I pray 
Mercy and Mercy, cruel commanding eyes. 
Hark to my cries. 
Grant me release and hide from me, haunting eyes! 



O haunting eyes. 
Too- well -loved eyes. 

Do you not see that I wander and fall and stray. 

Losing my way 
In the intricate maze of the world where my journey lies. 
Do you not see how the flames you have kindled rise 

Thru the night and the day 
Till my life is an ardent despair, and I send my cries 

Quivering to you, begging you turn away. 
Leave my heart ashes O desolate leave my skies. 
Only release me, only hark to my cries. 

Turn ye away. 

Turn ye away. 
Turn ye away and hide from me, haunting eyes. 
Haunting eyes. 

Eyes that I love too well O turn ye away. 
Hide from me, haunting eyes! 



46 



THE LOVER SERVES HIS LADY 

AT VESPERS ON THE HILLS 

Oh solemn and beautiful service of evening time! 

The w^orld's wide silence, the tremulous whispering hush, 

Unvaporous air with the faintest of purple aflush. 
And the golden cloud-veil rent to reveal the sublime 

Slow death of the Saviour Sun, who has poured his blood 

In a crimson flood 
On the last high altar of hills in the western cHme! 



I thrill with devotion ecstatic, and joyfully drink 
The sacrament ancient, ineffable, feeling the breath 
Of the Spirit of Beauty in Sunset and Life beyond Death; 

The chain of the day and its deeds, link loosening link. 
Falls, and my soul, fulfilled of a mystical grace. 
Knows the embrace 

Of the Infinite Soul, who leans to it over the brink. 



And the flame of the rites of the ev'ning hath lit in my heart 
A fire of incense, a revernt burning of thought, 
A smoke of desire, with the fragrance of passion full-fraught. 

That rises to thee, O my Love, to thine altar apart. 

Thou Host in the Holy of Holies, the shrine of my soul. 

Thou divine sweet whole 

Of my faith and my worship, my God, O Belov'd, as thou art! 



47 



THE ISLE OF DREAMS 

Lone, in a sea of many currents, a fair island: 

The waters rage, and the winds bear sudden terrors; 
Winds and waters grow calm at the shores of the island. 

Grey, as a glen ere the dawn, mysterious, grey — 

Green terrible deeps in the waters, and on the winds 
Red flashes — but over the island all things are grey. 

Immortal sunset saddens evermore 

Under the drooping sky; but like a song 
Unbreathed, eternal dawn hovors on Heaven's shore. 



Flowers like dear remembered words are there. 

And winds like dearer, deeper silences; 
Old glances of loved eyes are the blue lakes there. 

Only upon the secret island, the grey Isle of Dreams, 

Are beauty, freedom, peace; there only divine content: 
Life and Love fold their wings together on the Isle of Dreams. 

For you are always with me there, Belov'd; 
Dreaming with you I am isled in ecstasy: 
You are the Princess of the Isle of Dreams, Belov'd! 



48 



THE POET LAMENTS ON BURNING 

A LETTER OF HIS LADY 

I have only a little unlovely plate of tin. 

Sweetheart, to burn your precious letter in. 

Yet as before some curious altar of great price 

I am bowed, reverent before this sacrifice. 

Following with a prayer each fragile word that sighs thru the 

smoke. 
As often I made a prayer for each word your cruel lips spoke. 



I would 1 had an altar of jade green as a shaded pool in July, 
Carved, by some man long dust who was a white quiet flame 

while he breathed. 
With all the most secret symbols of the desire that does not die; 
I would it were winged with two candelabra of yellow ivory 

copper-sheathed. 
Each with seven arms and seven waxen candles with golden 

rose-leaves en wreathed; 
And in the center a sunken bowl of red gold; 
There I would put the little thing of paper that is so dear to me. 
Holding so much of joy and sorrow and of love told and untold. 
And I would strew it with dried rose-leaves and leaves of the 

apple-tree. 
And light it with a slender taper tipped with fire from a little bowl 
Hollowed of a white moonstone and yellow with an odorous oil: 



49 



And when the smoke arose it would be colored with the color 

of my soul. 
And heavy with hopes and despairs as the smoke of some king's 

rich spoil. 



50 



IN TIME OF FAILURE THE LOVER TAKES 
COMFORT FROM THE THOUGHT OF HIS LOVE 

Tho trusted fellows proved but fools 

And brothers sworn betrayed by doubt. 

And failed by sloth, and brought about 
The ruin sure where discord rules; 

Tho all my labor was in vain. 

My ev'ry plan a bubble blown. 

My ev'ry hope a phantom flown. 
My sole reward a various pain; 

And tho the crown I thought to make 

For you, and all I thought to win 

Of precious gems to set therein 
With loving labor for your sake. 

Must now be numbered with the grey 

Pale phantoms that forevermore 

Await upon life's farther shore 
The word that God forgets to say — 

What matter. Love' I seem to wake 

From some hot frenzy of a dream. 

And all I did therein I deem 
But faulty service for your sake; 



51 



And here in calm and hush of night. 
With all the quiet stars above, 
I weave a robe of perfect love 

From cloth of dark and threads of light- 



I weave a robe of perfect love 
From all the beauty of the night. 
And you will wear it in God's sight, 

And at the last be glad thereof. 



5« 



THE LOVER TELLS HIS FAITH 

Sunlight to starlight swings the world around. 

Starlight to sunlight, day to uncertain day; 
Men grown a-weary fall and are the ground; 

Still the world wanders and passes not away. 

Surely to-morrow the stars will be in tune. 

The old-time anger of the sun will surely cease. 

The tale of all sorrows will be an ancient rune. 
All days will be ecstasy, all nights ecstatic peace! 

Because there are lovers, great lovers in the world. 
Strong great lovers with love exceeding strong; 

A wondrous web is weaving of their hair intercurled, 

A wondrous chorus rising from the rapture of their song — 

And the flame-winged seraphs are tangled in that web. 
Shaking dust of glory over quickening hearts. 

And the great song rises in floods that cannot ebb. 

And the far suns and planets take up harmonious parts. 

This is my faith: O my Belovded, come. 

Look on the stars with me and they will grow more bright- 
Add to the chorus our love's melodious sum. 

Hail thru the darkness the perfect day and night! 



53 



BERRIES OF WISDOM 



TO 
THE POETRY SOCIETY OF AMERICA 



54 



THE POET CONSIDERS THE SLOE-TREE 

Black and white, as the sloe. 

Is life with its joy and woe: 

White blooms in the wind o* the world's delight. 
But the tree is thorny and black as night. 



White blossoms must fade and blow 
From the tree of life, the black sloe; 
Blue berries of wisdom come, but Oh 
Who cares for them when the blossoms go? 



55 



THE POET CONSIDERS MAN, 

THE EARTH, THE SUN 

A tiny atom on a whirling mote 
Swinging around a little ball of fire 
That flies with futile speed a fleeting course 
Across a corner of the universe. 



MARTYR TO EVERYMAN 

I dream strange dreams for you, 
I have long thoughts for you, 
I sing all songs for you, 
I dare great deeds for you. 



And I am crowned with thorns by you. 
Mine eyes are closed with dust by you, 
I am repaid for loving you. 



56 



OUTWORN 

O unassuageable thirst, O wordless hunger. 
And all that is the grey of dying hours, 

Dead things, that wear the semblance of desires 
Long since betrayed and virginal no longer, 
Palpitant with the tiitile lust of powers 

That once lit all the world with morning fires! 



Not as of old your tremulous whispering fingers. 
Autumnal poplars! move across my soul 

Soothing it like white hands upon the brow. 
It is a bitter thing that memory lingers. 
It is a bitter thing that seasons roll. 

But, Oh, most bitter the inexorable Now! 



Not as of old, O grey of dying hours, 

O green, O rose, O gold that die to grey. 
Not as of old are you the ultimate glory. 
The perfect bloom of light; rather sad flowers 
Languishing for their lady torn away 

From her fair garden in some tragic story. 

Beneath unpitying clouds, over dull waters. 
Defeated flags, irreparably torn. 

Droop from the sad walls of the hollow West. 



57 



Weary with strife are the sons of men, and the daughters 
Weary with passionate waiting, and outworn 
Is all the impulsive rapture of the quest. 



Gold, and the color of rose, and the green of the world 
Only a mask to hide the ashen face 

Of death, the master of Time's pageantry! 
O beautiful Ones, a pitiless net is curled 
Under the rushes, under the revel's pace: 
This night ends all, no dawn will ever be. 



Dawn but a dream! And waking we press once more 
Westward, upon the solitary path 

That leads thru vistaed sunset into night: 
Hoping for peace, we meet our doom of war. 
Loving, we bow before some demon's wrath; 
Emptied of faith at last, emptied of might. 



We are grey phantoms of the dying hours. 

Doomed things, wearily passing. O fair face. 
Do you not bear one memory of the morn? 
What is the light upon your brow, what flowers 
Bloom in your hand? I see the ineffable grace 
Of drooping petals, of fading days forlorn. 



58 



CONSCIENCE 

For all our whipped and goaded ecstasies. 
Our passionate forgettings, we remember — 
Amid the mirth and music we remember — 
How One is waiting with an ultimate question 
Before the inviolable gates of God. 



THE POET CONSIDERS THOSE 

WHO KNOW NOT THEIR SOULS 

Ears ye have and hear not. 

Eyes ye have and see not: 
In the Kingdom of the Lord 

Deaf and blind will be not. 



Souls ye have and care not. 
Souls ye have and know not: 

To the great soul of the Lord 
Souls unconscious flow not. 



59 



THE POET SEES THAT 

TRUTH AND PASSION ARE ONE 

Time passes; all things temporal pass with it. 
Naught holds: our joys are mayflies, and they die 
After a little flutter of wings; our hopes 
Fade fast as Winter twilights; and our firm 
Fixed purposes are lamps that flicker and fail. 

Why do we keep the helm of this barque 
That can but toss on cruel seas of change? 

Always above the unquiet clouds we see 

One star that is more than fixed, being everlasting. 

One fire that hides no treacherous thing at heart. 

And will not sink to ash or grimy wick 

When tired God blows out the lights of time: 

Somehow we cannot falter nor turn back 

Nor seek the senseless calm beneath the waves 

While fire calls to fire, and we feel 

Thai these blown flames our hearts are wandering sparks 

Of that eternal star, although its name 

Is Truth, and Passion is our word for these. 



60 



THEY WENT FORTH TO BATTLE 

BUT THEY ALWAYS FELL 

They went forth to battle but they always fell; 

Their eyes were fixed above the sullen shields; 
Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well. 
And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell. 

They knew not fear that to the foeman yields. 
They were not weak, as one who vainly wields 
A futile weapon; yet the sad scrolls tell 
How on the hard-fought field they always fell. 

It was a secret music that they heard, 

A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace; 
And that which pierced the heart was but a word, 
Tho the white breast was red-lipped where the sword 
Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surcease 
On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase. 
Ah, they by some strange troubling doubt were stirred^ 
And died for hearing what no foeman heard. 

They went forth to battle but they always fell: 

Their might was not the might of lifted spears; 
Over the battle-clamor came a spell 
Of troubling music, and they fought not well. 

Their wreaths are willows and their tribute, tears; 
Their names are old sad stories in men's ears; 
Yet they will scatter the red hordes of Hell, 
Who went to battle forth and always fell. 

6i 



THE PASSIONATE 

«* The heart that is passionate must be sad," 
The leaves said and the wind said; 
And the leaves fell dying about my head: 
They had fled from life for the love of the wind. 
But the love that is passionate must be sad. 



** The end of passionate love is death " 
The cliff sighed and the sea cried; 
And the passionate sea hath broken and died 
Desiring the breast of the tall cold cliff: 
And the end of passionate love is death. 



But the passionate soul hath lasting life. 
The skies know and the stars know; 
The stars with immortal passion glow. 

And the skies are quick with God's passionate breath, 

And the passionate soul hath lasting life. 



62 



THE TEMPTOR FEAR 

He pointed with his finger to the pit. 

And said ** If you could guess the peril of it. 

How many hells within its darkness hide. 

And what implacable hands on every side 

Reach up to clutch you some day unawares — 

Ah, could you know ! ' ' — But I as one who dares 

Impossible things in some delirium. 

Threw back my head and cried ** Why let them come. 

At least they will find me laughing with the sun! '* 

— I turned, and lo he fled, that evil one! 



THE POET CONSIDERS OUR LITTLE DAYS 

The slow days drop one by one into the Pool of Time, 

They are tears of our souls, the slow days that are lost in the 

Pool of Time, 
And the little ripples of hope and joy arise and flow and are 

gone 
And quiet comes, and peace comes and broods on the Pool of 

Time. 



63 



THE CHILDREN'S WISDOM 

The world is very old and the world is very wise. 
And the world looks on children with disdainful eyes; 
But I know of the coming of a great surprise: 



For when the world is older by many many years. 
And Gabriel the Terrible with trumpeting appears. 
It will learn the children's wisdom in a day of bitter tears. 



THE LESSON SIMPLE 

If the thoughts of your mind are gentle 

And the words of your tongue are sweet. 
If the deeds of your hands are kindly 

And the look of your person neat — 
Why, men and women will love you 

And an angel will guide your feet, 
And life will be full of beauty. 

And God will smile from His seat. 



64 



ILL-WOVEN GARLANDS 



TO 
THE EDITORS WHO HAVE ACCEPTED ME 



6> 



OF A DAY'S BLOSSOMS 



NORTHWARD 

Northward ! 

God gave us the whole world to be our own! 

This is the anvil whereupon our skill. 

Our strength and our indomitable will 

Must hammer out a destiny unknown — 

Unknown but surely great! — and we must fill 

With the soul's forges every sullen zone. 

Even that one where Death sits clothed in cold upon an icy throne. 

Forward ! 

God gave our souls one law. 

One only; Ye shall grow! 

Burdened and broken the sad centuries go. 

Scarred with our cruel failures — yet one saw 

The Deluge cheated of the just man Noah; 

And one was glad to see The Chosen stand 

Upon the threshold of the Promised Land; 

One saw an Emperor conquered by the Cross! 

And where the waters flow 

Between the yearning continents, and toss 

Their futile waves, one century knew how 

Brave Brendan marked a pathway with his prow; 

And even so 



66 



Columbus led the eager race anew. 

One saw the few 

Determined pioneers of all the race 

Reject an Empire's dominance, and trace 

For Freedom's feet a broad unbounded way. 

And that great cycle which was yesterday. 

More marvels than its banded forebears knew — 

Clouds and the lightning doing Man's decree. 

And Nature's riddles read that all may see. 

Yet more to do 

Remains, than all that has been done, and we. 

We are the doers, the appointed doers we! 

Northward ! 

The fearless Vikings shrunk aghast 

From the unvaried, vast 

And terrible portals closing toward the Pole. 

Yet by our modern breed grim Cold's control 

Is broken more and more, until at last 

One Man 

Dashes triumphantly unto the goal ! 

Northward ! 

Toward the Eternal Midas, whose sad hand 
Turns not to gold, but ice, what touches it! 
The treacherous floor that is not sea nor land. 
Beneath his feet doth creak and gape and split; 
Weird luminous darkness wavers warnings 



67 



Thru the long night unlit by mornings; 

Deadly distillments of the letheal cold 

Subtly into his veins creep unawares. 

But he is bold 

With courage of great purpose, and he dares 

Press northward still, still northward, northward fares! — 

Till in a moment tremulous with awe. 

Silent amidst white silence, he doth stand 

A victor, at the Pole! 

And in his soul 

He feels God's benediction, he who vindicates the Law. 

Onward, 
Forever onward! 

What tho the earth be bounded by the Poles, 
Our still insatiate souls 

Thirst for the wine of all the worlds, and thirst 
For God*s own mystic wine; and all the goals 
W^ith glory won, we make the sunrise wharves 
Whence to new voyage, with aspiring sail, 
Freighted with potencies, we start, as first 
The savage from his murky vale 
Started the heights to scale. 
Our spirits grow to giants or to dwarves. 
God gave our souls one law. 
One only: Ye shall grow 
And ever onward go! 

And he who hears and does, he shall ^now glory, he shall be 
crowned with awe! 

68 



ANNUS MIRABILIS— 1909, RETROSPECT 

God has put down his two hands 

In this our day, and wrought thru us 
A myriad works miraculous 

On all the seas, in all the lands. 



As once a man whose name was John 
Came crying **Make ye straight the way 
The Lord will travel in our day. 

Prepare the paths he comes upon ! ' * — 

So those who by the modern plan 
Startle us with tremendous deeds. 
They too announce a Lord who speeds. 

The coming Lord whose name is Man. 

The hills are being levelled low. 
The vallies filled before his feet; 
To make his royal highway meet 

We clear the jungle, blow by blow. 

Because we dread his god-like wrath. 
And yearn that love shall fill his eyes, • 
We still our hateful battle-cries 

And seek the victories Peace hath. 



69 



Along the selfish old frontiers 

We ground our arms and clasp our hands; 

We learn to bind, not cleave the lands; 
We trust our faiths and still our fears. 



We revel in our growing strength! 
We master the applauding sea — 
Four days to cross it — soon in three! 

And safe on all its circled length ! 



For if in some recurrent rage 

A proud ship breaks beneath its lash. 
Electric words with instant flash 

Bring help from every vicinage. 



We dive beneath deceitful waves 
To sail deep green unvaried calms. 
Among long-fronded water-palms. 

Among old frigates* peaceful graves. 



And North and South where deadly cold 
Spreads sea and land with glistening ice. 
By strength and courage and device 

We push, till all their tale is told. 



70 



Insatiate, from land and sea 

We turn aspiring to the air: 

We spread swift wings of conquest there. 
And sail long leagues majestic'ly. 



About the convex vasty globe 
We trace a path in forty days; 
O'er dizzy chasms fling our ways. 

And rush thru many a rocky tube. 



The waters of a mighty stream 
We lead beneath a granite mount. 
And in the desert like a fount 

They wake life from its arid dream. 



Across five-hundred miles we talk 
Without the aid of tingling wires; 
In hearts thought cold we wake the fires- 

The seeming-dead arise and walk. 



Thus science with her certain wand 
Opens new gates on every part. 
While pregnant with great seed is Art; 

And Love is binding in her bond 



71 



The long-divided family 

Grown weary of unnatural hate; 

And Justice with the step of Fate 
Will enter where Love's councils be. 



The new Messiah's day is near: 

His name is Man, the Son of God; 
His gleaming feet are all unshod — 

Oh make the level pathway clear! 



This is the word the wise ones hear 
Thru all the clatter of machines. 
In all the complex human scenes — 

The new Messiah's day is near! 



THE POETS WITH THE SOUNDING GONG 

Tho oft they come they last not long. 
The poets with the sounding gong. 
The hanging hair, the hungry looks. 
The frantic schemes to boom their books — 
To keep within the public gaze 
While worthier men go quiet ways. 



7« 



Ah, let them rant and pose awhile 
And earn their meed, a weary smile! 



In truthfial numbers flow, my song. 

About the poets with the gong! 

Fame whispers when of them she speaks. 

And bows to hide her reddening cheeks. 

For each conceived a great desire 

To write in words of living fire. 

But finding that above his head. 

He took to crimson paint instead. 

Ah careless of all proper pride. 

They blazon forth what just men hide. 

And, so they spread their lurid fames 

Stop not at smirching honored names; 

Nay, even foul the craft they own. 

Till men confuse the bard and clown. 

What shall forgive these grievous wrongs, 

O poets with the clanging gongs? 



To think that songs like these are heard 
While bards who temper every word 
To prove it pure and fair and just. 
Unnoted live, as live they must! 
O cease for shame your raucous songs, 
Ye poets with the sounding gongs! 

73 



^*AND WE SHALL DANCE" 

TO ISADORA DUNCAN 

We tire of our intolerable lords. 

Our mastering machines, and we are vvearv 
Of mirthless revels, feigned, unnatural fetes; 
Some sudden touch of elemental chords 

Eager we wait, and waiting, nothing fear we 

But they will sound, and open long-closed gates. 



O weave a garland for these tired hours 
Of the old fragrant half-forgotten flowers. 

Weave it, undying spirits of the old delightful times! 
See, here is one to bear it. 
One who is fair to wear it. 

One whose light steps are lyric, whose white feet are shod 
with rimes! 



We feel fresh waves of music in our day. 

Waters and winds grow blithe again, and soon 
Youth will return to us, the strong and sweet; 
More buoyantly we tread the arduous way. 

And we shall dance beneath some imminent moon, 
Led by the laughter of intrepid feet. 



CALVARY A. D. 19— 

We do not see our Lord who bleeds 

Upon the cruel Tree; 
We're very busy here, and very 

Far from Calvary. 



We do not hear our Lord who cries 

With such a piteous cry. 
We ofFer neither gall nor wine — 

We hurry by. 



We do not mourn our Lord who dies 

With bitter, bitter pain. 
For weeping wastes the time that might 

Mean gain; 



And we cannot afford to pour 
Rich ointments in a wound. 

Nor wrap with length of linen soft 
His naked body 'round; 

We cannot stop to mourn our Lord 
Who died upon the Cross; 

Time spent in grief or service free 
Means loss. 

75 



OF CITY FLOWERS 

ON READING CERTAIN POEMS 

IN PRAISE OF NEW YORK 

My city ! How the younger poets mock 

With present praise thine unrevealed soul! 

Surely with scorn thou hear'st their raptures roll, 
Nor will to their small minds thy mind unlock. 
Not with such clamoring casuists can I flock; 

Black witch who ere my birth my future stole. 

With fury that I care not to control 
I hate thee and the children of thy stock ! 



I hate thee and I cry it to the world! 
And in return thy uncouth savage love, 
O lewd amorphous Mystery, I feel! 
For when at last thy loftiest towers are hurled 
Hell-ward, of all who mourn thy ruins above. 
My grief alone, thou knowest, will be real. 



7^ 



A BROADWAY RESTAURANT— EARLY MORNING 

Delicate ferns 

In sculptured vases, 
And in the corners 

Palms a-sway; 
Sweet, incessant 

And soft and silver 
The fountain sings 

While the viols 

Play— 
(Oh the days 

And the nights departed 
Suddenly called 

To life again. 
Oh the melodious 

Melancholy 
Memory -laden 

Magic strain ! ) 



Chosen flower 

Of fortunate garden 
Every exquisite 

Woman seems — 
( Ah but the joy 

Of meadow-blossoms 
A rose might envy 

71 



In hopeless 

Dreams?) 
Gleam of gems 

And the subtle shimmer 
Of silk and satin 

(But ah they lie 
Heavy!) And hear 

How light the laughter! 
How gay is woman ! 

(Search not her eye!) 



Graceful silver 

Under the candles, 
Suave ceramics. 

Radiant glass. 
Piquant food 

And the bubbhng vintage - 
(Ah, starved souls 

While the dry days 

Pass!) 
Perfect surely 

The art that conjures 
Crimson life out of 

More than death: 
Yet like a dream 

Behold it vanish. 
Hushed and pallid 

At dawn's grey breath! 



78 



THE TENTS OF BOHEMIA 

We who are weary 
We who are lost 
Gather at night. 
And we are as boats 

On a black wave tost 
And have no light. 

O pitying moon 

We have shut you out 
With a tent of words. 
But I would we were 
As a ghostly rout 

Or as shadowy herds! 

We have turned from the stars 
And the wandering clouds 
And the color of night. 
And we chatter and drink 

In the dark that shrouds 
The wandering light. 

Oh the open fields, 

Where the color of night 
Moves over dark trees, 
And the flood of the moon 
To the eyes gives sight, 
To the soul gives peace! 

79 



TO ONE SEEN IN BOHEMIA 

Brown cap and red-brown hair and pale small face. 

Had my Love been with me to-night I had said 

•*Here is one made for dreams come into this place; 

Long ago surely a prince would have crowned that head 

And called upon lords and people to bow to her delicate grace. 

Who had not power nor pride, but beauty and love instead; 

Nay, but a prince, had he met her under the trees 

When he followed the red buck over the brown dry leaves. 

With the cry of the hounds in his ears, would have forgotten these. 

And his stately queen, and honor, and all that grieves. 

For a free sweet secret hour close to her red-brown hair." 

And my Love would have answered **Aye, she is fair. 

Somehow like red-brown fluttering frail small leaves. 

Do you not see how the hollow laughter, the music, the glare. 

And wine and words are warring upon her there?" 



80 



IN A CAFE 

For all the glare of the lights 

That seem to have nothing hidden, 
The ancient luminous shadows 

Come here, even here, unbidden. 



The music is overloud. 

And the laughter is like to cries. 
But the old significant silences 

Somtimes conquer and rise. 



I sense in these futile revels 

The desire of the race. 
And an unattainable beauty 

On each weary or wanton face. 



Here where all folly is loud. 
And is spread for all to see, 

I am ever surely aware 
Of wisdom and mystery. 



8i 



ON THE CITY'S RAGGED EDGE 

Where the poorer people live 

On the city's ragged edge, 
Muddy street strays into meadow. 

Hateful wall gives way to hedge; 
Toward the poorer part of town 
The unshorn hearty hill slopes down. 

Strewing paths of dandelions 
Just to lure you to its crown. 



And the birds with all their songs 
Are like neighbors over there. 

And a field of dancing daisies 
More than any park is fair; 

And beyond the streetways' bound 

Rise the rough old hills around. 
And thru many a pit and pathway 

You can see the good red ground. 



82 



OF SEA FLOWERS 

MARINERS' HYMN TO POSEIDON 

(From the Palatine Anthology) 

Poseidon watching from an isle 
Over the waters all the while. 
We poor mariners in our boat. 
Toss upon thy tides afloat 
This little loaf of barley bread; 
This little cup of wine we shed 
Over thy waves that leap to drink; 
And see, our tiny lamp doth wink 
With little pleading prayers to thee. 
Who only can make safe the sea! 
Father of waves, bid fair winds come. 
Waft us to well -loved Actium! 



83 



SEA-GULLS 

White birds of the ocean, O beautiful birds of the sea. 
Such Joy of wild living can never be known by me. 
Such fierceness of freedom as yours I may sigh for in vain ! 

O white wild birds of the ocean. 

Such wild swift motion 
Would scatter my pain ! 



Well — there is a pleasure in watching you, birds of the sea: 
Swiftly you circle, you dart — O closer to me. 
Fly close, living forms of the Beauty Unending, and be 
White gleams in the dark of my sorrows, O joyous and free ! 



84 



ON A CLIFF OF THE WEST 

If there be and if there be 

Any mercy in the sea, 

O waves that sing so soft a song. 
Keep him far not overlong. 

But send mv man to me! 



Home to me. 

Send him home, 
Fill the sails. 

Western wind! 
Too cruel is the sea. 

Dead men's ashes are in its foam. 
And it breaks the ship with flails; 

But the western breeze is kind. 
Oh the breeze that blows so soft 

Must be kind! 



— Sea and wind 

Are alike in cruelty. 

They keep him overlong. 
And the ship is not so strong 

As they be! 



85 



Well I know that when the wave 
Closed above him as a grave. 
He was dauntless, he was brave. 

But he called, he called to me. 
And the latest cry he gave 

Was for me! 
When his ears was stopped from wind. 
And his eyes with salt were blind. 
And the waters hushed his lips. 

From his heart he called to me! 



I hear you and I come. 
Lips so silent, lips so dumb. 

Heart so strangely still and cold! 
For your cry is on the wind. 
And my tears have made me blind. 

And tho sea for grave is cold 
I will seek you, I will find, 

1 have heard you, O my lover. 
And I come! 



86 



BUT THE TIDES FLOW FAST— 

Ever and ever and ever again 

To the shore of the wide unanswering main 

She goes and stands. 

With her old thin hands 
Shading her eyes where hope is pain; 

**And when will he come, will he come?" she cries, 
"When will he come again?" 

And the sea replies but with sighs for sighs. 
And sighs for a hope that is vain. 



And is there any, and who is he. 
Comes not to a cold unanswering sea 

With a hunger-pain 

And a question vain, 
(Ah terrible tyrannous hopes have we!) 

And **Oh for the things that have been and passed. 
And will they return to me?" 

But the tides flow fast, and the things that have passed 
Return not over the sea. 



87 



OF WILLOWS AND IMMORTELS 

MACDOWELL: AN ELEGY 

The Master lieth low, he is taken: 

Let us bow. 

But let us not despair, tho the heart be shaken: 

When is the time for faith, if it be not now? 

His dreams were troubled here; there is rest where he will 

awaken. 
Peace at last will be white around his brow. 
And there will be Reward: it is for that he is taken. 
Let us bow. 

Then let us lift our hearts, that a deep-sprung joyous strain 
May dominate these minors of deep pain. 

How should we wrong him if our faith were weak ! 
He was no doubting soul, who first 
Dared in our rougher forest-wilds to seek 
The gods who give men music; 
Who bade the winds of lake and prairie burst 
To harmonies that hushed and held the worid! 
How should we shame him if we feared ! 
He was no timid soul. 

Who found his music where the sea storms whirled. 
And the white towering bergs came cruising, mist-enfurled! 
How should we wrong him by despair! 
Him, who found all things so fair, 

88 



Who understood Eternal Joy, 
And sang of it in songs so rare: 
Let us not wrong him by despair! 

But our hearts are wrung: 

Grief will not be still. 

Sorrow must find a tongue. 

Grief and Sorrow! ah these 

Also the Master knew. 

Listen — those melodies 

Do they not seem to fill? 

Cries from a soul that was wrung! 

Play then his melodies. 

And his subtle harmonies. 

And his rare, sad songs let us sing as we oft have sung; 

Thus shall our grief have tongue. 

Enough! The Tragic note is heard by all — 

The universal music of mankind. 

He rose above it to an Heroic call. 

Triumphing with great heart and soul and mind. 

He listened to the Immemorial Wind 

That bloweth ever from the far Dawn -Days 

Old epic fragments and old bardic lays: 

He learned their secret and their prophecy — 

Listen: — Eternal Beauty ! — Immortality ! 

The Master lieth low: he is taken: 
Let us bow. 

89 



But let us rejoice, tho our hearts be shaken! 

Peace and Reward will be white upon his brow, 

Joy will be his, where he will awaken. 

Strong in our faith, and our hearts are lifted now; 

Grief is a minor in the harmony ; 

Joy is triumphant. Immortality! 



THE KELTIC SONATA* 

I dream of Eire and the ancient days. 

When Wonder woke in all men's hearts, and Beauty, 

Wild bride of Wonder, walked the ways of earth. 

In those days queenly women were in Eire, 

And warriors valorous, mighty, generous, fierce. 

Battled, and loved, and lived a throbbing life. 



I see bright Deirdre walking in her dhoon. 
Thrice-guarded by a monarch's jealous watch. 
And yet love entered in; I see her clasped 
In Neeshe's arms: I mark their flight to Alba, 
Their exile, and their trustful glad return. 
And the swift tragedy of Cunhuar's wrath! 
I hear the heart of earth's most lovely woman 
Breaking in wild immortal strains of griet. 



90 



I see the Red Branch shattered. 

There apart 
Vestured somehow with sad nobility 
Beyond that noble knighthood, stands the dark 
Cuhullin; and his eyes long hot with war 
Are haunted now, remembering how he killed 
His only son, unknowing what he did; 
Feeling at last too great the weariness 
Of many scores of battles, since fate cast 
Upon his spear his brother Faerdiah. 



And now against the flare of a weeping West 
Waits he, Cuhullin, guardian of the ford. 
And from the red and whirling cloud of battle 
Lightning-like flashes the fell spear of Lewy, 
And great Cuhullin falls — Cuhullin falls! — 
The heavens are troubled and the hills are shaken, 
The winds and waters cry. But all the host 
Of Maeve the War-Queen clash exulting spears 
And shout triumphantly, and rush — they stop — 
Cuhullin is not dead! That mighty one 
Has risen, and around a pillar stone 
Has cast his bloody girdle, and has bound 
Its bracing girth about his breast. Erect, 
Full-armed, a terror in the day, he stands. 
Facing all Connacht; and the exulting host 
Mad-crowding thru the ford, are struck aghast. 



91 



And in a frenzy of wild fear shrink back. 

Faltering trembling -tongued **We cannot fight 

Immortal gods: Cuhullin is not dead! " 

And when that host of warriors has gone 

Like fine dust blowing down the wind, that form 

Firm-braced before the pillar-stone, grows limp. 

And droops, and strains the girdle; then come ravens 

And shadow with grev plumes the glazing eyes; 

And all is silent, save the gentle drip 

Of oozing drops of blood; now that has ceased. 

A wind blows softly from some distant place. 
Kissing his hair; I hear it singing low 
"Cuhullin lives; Cuhullin is not dead!" 

*rhe Keltic Sonata, for pianoforte, which is perhaps the 
masterpiece of the late Edward MacDowell's work in musical 
composition, is in three movements. The first movement gives 
expression to the mood induced by a contemplation of the whole 
bodv of Gaelic legend of the Heroic time. The second is a 
musical version of the tragic story of Deirdre, **the fairest 
woman on the ridge of the world." The third movement is 
inspired by the life of the champion Cuhullin; the final passages 
tell of his heroic death, and draw from the contemplation of that 
episode a noble lesson. 

Eire is the correct name of Ireland. Cunhuar was king of 
Ulster about the beginning of the Christian era. He was head 
of the military order of the Red Branch, which split in two 
factions after the King's treacherous murder of the husband of 
Deirdre and his brothers. One faction joined Maeve, Oueen of 
Connacht, in her expedition against Cunhuar. Of those who 
remained true to the King, the greatest was Cuhullin. 



OF STRAY GATHERINGS 



THE POET EXPLAINS 

If you should wonder that I sing of sorrows 
So often, and so seldom with the joy 

Of God's appointed singers, the wild birds. 
Think: All my yesterdays and all my morrows 
Are spent with men and cities, things that cloy; 

Think: I have no wild voice, but tear-dimmed words. 



93 



WINE OF DENMARK 

Oh bring me wine of Denmark ! Sure there grow 
Grapes on some dark vine close to Elsinore, 
Whose roots do worm-like eat dead Hamlet's dust. 
Whose wine will burn with fires of Hamlet's blood: 
Oh bring me wine of Denmark! 

Every grape 
That purples on a terraced Rhenish hill — 
A hill with some age-weary castle crowned — 
May bear a drop of blood, that long ago 
Clotted the grass and slowly soaked to earth; 
And those light liquors that from Italy 
Or fiery France are come, they may be quick 
And vivid with the essences of lives 
Lost long ago, when each man bore a blade; 
But in some public combat, baron's brawl 
Or clash of marshalled hosts, for crowns and kingdoms 
And strong- walled cities striving, flowed that blood. 
I will not of those wines: I cannot stir 
With the grim spirit of those sturdy men 
Who fought their open fight beneath the sun, 
And conquered, and went down, with strength superb. 
For I am of the weakly -strong, who know 
The secret sorrow, the strife within the soul. 
The swords more keen than steel that pierce the heart 
From deep within; I know, and would forget. 
So, wine of Northern Denmark! Do not think 



94 



The vine is all too tender for that clime; 
No, surely there grow grapes at Elsinere, 
For grapes are the tragic fruit. There is a vine. 
There must be, with dark leaves and darker fruit. 
And roots deep in the brooding skull of Hamlet, 
Deep in the dust of sweet Ophelia's breast; 
And Oh, the wine, the wine of those wild grapes. 
The wine of madness, I would drink of that ! 
Drink and be madly foolish, madly wise. 
Mad with love-sorrows — drink again and be 
Like one who sleeps while horrid deeds are done; 
Like a bird, singing an hour since his mate. 
Now all forgotten, fell a quivering prey; 
Like a snapt flower, flying on the wind. 
Loosed from the grimy earth, freed from the clod, 
A wild sweet wonder for a little space 
Before the fall, the end! — ^Oh like to her. 
Gently released from memories of the past. 
Griefs and more grievous joys, and singing sent 
With steps unfearing to the final peace. 



Oh irom this hatetiil and unholy calm 
To be released, tho madness be the way! 
Mad would I be, mad with remembered joys. 
And the dull smart of endless vain regrets; 
Mad with the fearful press of present fate. 
And the long future, hopeless, futile, dead. 



95 



Dead before birth! Ho, wine of Elsinore! 
That I may shake from this unnatural calm, 
And shatter into madness, meeter state, 
And then — a day of splendid frenzy spent— 
Suddenly shudder off all memories. 
And softly sink into a dreamless flood 
Of cool, oblivious waters, and be still. 



NIAV 

A sudden whisper of melody out of the West: 

Niav is calling, calling. 

A chill dew is falling. 

The grass is chill. 

Moon-grey the hill; 

The quick wind is keen. 
For him who hears, it is nevermore to rest. 

Far lights are seen 

On ridges rolling or on dark peaks still; 
There are beckoning fingers of flame on the rim of the West; 
There are sudden desires in hearts where content were best; 
There is mystical laughter and gleam of a gold-veiled breast: 

Grey dew is falling 

And Niav is calling 

With a wild quick whisper 

Calling — calling ! 



96 



ALVEE 



A YOUNG IRISH POET OF PAGAN TIMES SINGS 



Alvee of the curly hair. 

There is none like Alvee! 
When I saw her first I said 
**Of all maidens quick or dead 
None was e'er like Alvee!" 



Alvee of the curly hair 
From the sunset came. 
Like a shimmering flame 

The sun sends east at ev'ning. 



Alvee 's curls are berry brown; 
'Round my heart they twined them. 

In her eyes what fleeting fires! 

Visions, longings, loves, desires? 
Who shall know? They come, they go 
Calling me to find them. 



** Alvee of the head of curls. 

Girls are none like thee, O Alvee! 

In the rocky North are none. 

In the green South none like thee; 



97 



In the fiery East not one, 

Nor in all the West, Machree; 
And the wandering sevenfold sea 
In any land finds none like thee ! ' ' 

So I sang to Alvee, 

And my harp with sweet tones trembled. 



Alvee of the little laugh. 

Half I won the heart within thee 
With that song, altho thou only 
Laughed, and ran, and left me lonely. 

Planning how to wholly win thee. 



** Alvee of the head of curls. 

Whirls a storm within my heart: 

It is love that madly swirls, 

Alvee of the little curls — 

Love and thou are in my heart! 

Thou alone shalt have my praise. 

Thou alone shalt rule my days. 
Thou alone my heart ! ' ' 



Alvee, wild as any bird. 

Heard the songs I made her. 
Listened as I played her; 



98 



And the while she heard, 

Love was born in Alvee, 
Wild as any bird ! 



Alvee's eyes are large and soft, 

Never doe's large eyes were softer; 
Merry eyes they are most oft. 

But sometimes tears follow laughter; 

Most they're filled with sweet wild wonder. 
Jn those eyes I read. She loved me! 
And I sang, as passion moved me: 

"Alvee, Alvee, we are under 
Aengus' spell; his birds around us 
Fly and cry; their cries have bound us 

In a golden web forever, 

Oh forever and forever! 
See their milk-white wings flash by us! 

Hear their song of joy and sadness! 
What is that they loudly cry us? 

Rise, arise to rapture'' s gladness. 

Love acknowledged, glory, madness, 

O ye lovers, O ye lovers! 

Aengus, he the Love-God, hovers 
Over you; the Ancient Mother, 

Dana, gives her blessing to you; 

Aedh, the Fiery One, breathes thru you — - 
Give "^ourselves to one another! 



99 



Thus the birds of Aengus, flying 
Over us, A Roon, are crying. 
Crying to us, Alvee, Alvee, 
Crying, Alvee, crying!" 



* • Alvee from the Western Sea, 

Free, wiid, wayward as the water. 

Surges wave-like love in me. 

Wave-like rises love in thee: 

Let them mingle, sea with sea. 

Me with thee, Mananan's Daughter! 



Alvee of the heart of love 

Strove against me then no longer. 
Maiden modesty to prove. 

But acknowledged passion stronger 
In her beating heart of love. 



Alvee of the warm desire, 

Fire and wave in one was Alvee 

When she gave me love entire. 

Wild as wave and warm as fire. 

Now together we conspire 

To make life a wondrous thing. 
And our hearts together sing. 

loo 



Like the Love- God's winged choir; 
And our passion does not tire. 

And our joy with buoyant wing 
Rises still as we conspire 
To know life and love entire. 

Oh that I could better sing 

Of my all too-wondrous Alvee, 
Woman of the Wave and Fire, 

Of the all too-wondrous woman, 

Alvee, Alvee, Alvee! 



Machree: My Heart! — Gaelic term of endearment. 

Aengus: Spirit of Love among the Gaelic Immortals. 

Dana: Earth-Mother among the Gaelic Immortals (pro- 
nounced dhawn-a). 

Aedh: One of the Gaelic Immortals whose name signified 
fire (pronounce a). 

A Roon; O Beloved: Gaelic term of endearment. 

Mananan: Ruler of the Sea among Gaelic Immortals. 



lOI 



CANZONET ANTICO : 

CON GIOIA— CON LAGRIME 

One day when I was very glad, 

One cloudless afternoon, 
I played upon my violin 

An old sweet by-gone tune — 
Played for the happiness I had, 

The joys I hoped for soon. 



An old man sitting in the sun 
Grew rapt to hear me play; 

The look that came upon his face 
Meant more than I can say; 

And when a mist was in his eyes 
He rose and went awav. 



A PRAYER OF VERY OLD MEN 

Ah Time, too cruel, thy demon years 
Having stolen our laughter, steal our tears; 
O being content our mirth to keep, 
Relent, relent, and let us weep! 



A SONG AND A SEQUEL 

One day I sat a-singing — 

One day when I was young — 

Beside a lass whose love I had. 
And here's the song I sung. 
And here's the song I sung: 

" Oh, life is meant for loving 
And time is meant for Joy, 

And the world is meant for you and me, 
For we are girl and boy. 
Oh we are girl and boy ! ' ' 



Alas! It was not easy 

To make the world my own; 
Too long with time I linger 

Since ev'ry joy has flown; 
And low along life's pathway 

Love's bitter fruit is strewn. 



[03 



TO A LITTLE GIRL ROMPING 

Little girl. 

Little girl so sweet! 

The wind blows wild your tresses, 

And swirls your pretty dresses; 

The wind lays soft caresses 

On your cheek. 

Cold and bleak 

May the winds never be 

That you meet ! 



THE SAD POET TELLETH OF HIS SONG 

I sang my song under the willow tree; 

I stood in shadow, that none might see; 

My voice was low, like sighing. 

My words were slow birds flying. 

My gentle harp was strung with grey 

Such as no swift gleam might betray ; 

And all the music I could waken 

Was like a wind terribly shaken 

From the black wings of Azrael, making bruit 

Thru the vines of a vinyard bare of fruit. 



[04 



A NOTE 

One of the few mistaken dicta of that sayer of summary 
things, Oscar Wilde, is that **it requires an artist to praise art; 
anyone can pick it to pieces." 

I have had signal proof that the critic competent to pick a 
work of art to pieces, to justly discover its deficiencies and 
arraign its offences, is a rarity. Nay, the critic competent to 
pick a work of art to pieces and praise it with reference to the 
intelligent principles and theories it exemplifies, seems just as 
rare. The first edition of this little book was damned or pat- 
ronized by a half-dozen reviewers because it was youthful, be- 
cause it sang of love arid the stars instead of janitors and shop- 
girls, because it was consistently true to certain aesthetic princi- 
ples which some called conceits, and because it contained a Note 
indicating the theory which made it consistent and coherent; 
but no one indicted it for artistic sins and proved the charge. 
On the other hand it was praised in this way and that, but 
never with a complete appreciation of what I know to be the 
most important aspects. Tho sincerely grateful to the scores of 
reviewers and correspondents who have even made me blush at 
their praise, I venture herewith an attempt at an ideal review of 
my own book — the success and justice of which I cannot guar- 
antee. 

The beautifiil but questionable title. The Blossomy 
Bough, proves to be but the first feature of a rare quality of 
coherency and consistent truth to conscious artistic theory, dis- 



105 



tinguishing this book from the hap-hazard collections which 
seem to excuse the vulgar notion that a lyric poet is a scatter- 
brained creature of chance and impulse. Shaemas O Sheel has 
not only wrought works of art in the form of single poems, but 
he has made hb book as a whole a work of art. A suggestion 
of modesty, of youthful consciousness of limitations, blends with 
a hint of the immemorial verities of lyricism in this title; and 
from it depend, as blossoms depend from a bough, the slight, 
suggestive symbolisms of the sub-titles. There is, too, an 
indication of growth, of natural development, in the carehil 
arrangement of the poems, by which we can trace, as by the 
slightest of threads, the vicissitudes of a real love, in the first 
section, and the fall and rise of faith and resolution in the 
second. The same consciousness and conscience are evident in 
the titles of the individual poems, which are never wild at- 
tempts at sensational abstractions, but generally simple declarative 
sentences which announce quite simply the themes of the pieces, 
and hold a welcome remembrance of better days before poets 
were tempted to advertise their wares by glaring sign-board 
titles. We recall the captions which well-intentioned editors 
set over two of these poems when they had magazine publica- 
tion; and we think the contrast of their artificial Pool of Love, 
and banal The Lovers, with the poet's The Lover Tells What 
He Sees In His Lady's Eyes, and the Lover Scorns All 
Women But His Lady, proves the correctness of the poet's 
taste. 

It might be feared that poems, entitled and arranged in 
this way, would prove intolerably mannered and fatally nar- 

106 



rowed of range. In fact, the leading style of the book is 
frequently departed from, and the assertion in the Note that 
the poet always allows ** each poetic impulse to dictate its own 
form" is salutarily true. True it seems also that he has not 
practised poetic forms — vitanelles, ballades and sonnets — as 
forms, but has written ** because spirit and mind have been so 
stirred that high utterance became at once a necessity and, to 
some degree, a possibility," and has grown in perfection by 
being true to his sense of beauty. The Note, tho not impec- 
cable as to taste, is evidence of a conscious and conscientious 
art, and of a clear perception that the poet has the right, if not 
the duty, of contributing to the world's critical intelligence as 
well as to its lyric delights. A leading feature of the Note is 
the avowal of discipleship to Yeats because the latter has 
** carried English lyric poetry to its highest point, in the purity 
of his restrictions as well as in the new subtlety of his rhythms 
and the magic of his symbolism." 

Yet 0*Sheel never imitates Yeats. In seme poems of 
rare beauty he has something of the subtle rhythm and the 
concise magic of the Irishman, but he is never nearly so subtle 
nor so magic. A style, as frequently exemplified, seems to be 
more his own: a sort of vers litre moulded as to rhythm and 
annotated as to rhyme by an integral musical impulse. There 
are good examples of several kinds of blank verse also, and 
finally many lyrics in old familiar lyric forms. The technique is 
always essentially good; it is appropriate and con petent, and, 
particularly, there is not a line nor a word of padding or banal- 
ity, while the music is that of a poet who will not and cannot 

107 



tolerate harshness. That is to say, poetry resides in every 
phrase; it is fibrous, organic, tense, musical. Also, it is often 
brilliant and keen in imagery. A few phrases should be death- 
less: **The world is a terrible crumbling of moons and of 
suns;" •« 1 felt Ardor invade my soul;" **When tired God 
blows out the lights of time " — these are quotable single lines; 
but pages would be needed to quote the phrases and whole 
poems which are cogent and memorable expressions. 

If the purity and ecstacy and mystery of love are beauti- 
fully sung in the first section, and spiritual nobility in the 
second, the third contains in its miscellany such notable things 
as the adventurous pride of Northward!, the discovery of the 
soul in Bohemia in a quartet of poems, the fine appreciation of 
Isadore Duncan, the noble tributes to the late Edward Mac- 
Dowell, the sustained romanticism of Alvee, and the group of 
true lyrics at the end. But there are limits to be set to this 
praise. If there is the music of wind among boughs and 
grasses, there is seldom rich harmony ; if there is color of mist 
and pale roses, there is seldom richer color; if there is cogency 
and incisiveness, there is no elaboration; and tho the art is rare 
and fine and noble, it is to fear that the poet is incapable of sus- 
tained construction. The Blossomy Bough is a book to love if 
not to greatly admire for its poetry, and to be thankful for 
because of its intelligent and conscious artistic theory. 



1 08 



17 m A- 



INDEX OF GROUPS 

THE GUEST OF THE ROSE 

THAT IS WHITE AND RED 

THE ROSE-BREATH 6 

THORNS 12 

THE ROSE IN HER GARDEN 23 

THE PERIL OF ROSE-QUESTING 30 

FOUND 38 

BERRIES OF WISDOM 55 

ILL-WOVEN GARLANDS 

OF A SEASON'S BLOSSOMS 66 

OF CITY FLOWERS 76 

OF SEA FLOWERS 83 

OF WILLOW AND IMMORTELS 88 

STRAY GATHERINGS 93 

A NOTE 105 

It is a pleasure to acknowledge the courtesy of the publishers 
of Harper's Weekly, The New York Sun, The New York 
Times Sunday Magazine, The Forum, The Papyrus, The 
Messenger of the Sacred Heart, The New York Tribune, The 
Springfield Republican and The Boston Transcript, who have 
given me permission to reprint poems which originally appeared 
in those publications. 

109 






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